


Lost and Found

by avulgaris



Series: Lessons-verse [2]
Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Bad guys, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Flirting, Growing Up, Zombies, beth singing, daryl mouthing off, poor rabbits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-16 17:06:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1355110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avulgaris/pseuds/avulgaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beth finds she has a bit of a crush.</p><p>A/N: A meandering follow-up to <i>Lessons</i>, so AU after 4x12 (Still).  Starts light-hearted again, and then delves deeper. Rated for language, graphic violence, attempted rape, dead people... and other stuff. Y'know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_I wanna grow somethin’ wild and unruly._

—dixie chicks

**1\. smokes**

 

The tin cans started rattling some time before dawn, the walkers softly snarling and scratching. 

Beth took a breath, stretching under the quilt.  The sting of tobacco smoke hung in the moist air, and she buried her face in her pillow and mumbled, "How many’re there?" 

Daryl's boots hit the floorboards with a creak. “You say somethin’?” 

She peered at him with one eye as he neared the bed, a shadow against the blue light of dawn. "Said how many."  Beth wrapped the quilt tighter, burrowing in, self-conscious in front of him for the first time in weeks. 

“Dunno—three or four… Can take care’a—” 

Beth shook her head and forced herself to sit, yawning and cracking her toes.  She reached blindly for her Bowie knife on the night stand and slid into her cowgirl boots.  Three to four walkers were too many to let wander around the house… and she wasn’t about to be some dead weight on Daryl’s back. “I’ll come.” 

The bedroom window was open, and she shivered as they went quietly downstairs and out the back door. A heavy fog hung over the farm, and the world felt all muffled and still asleep. 

Three walkers were milling at the porch steps like cows at a weakened fence, not quite motivated enough to force their way through the rope, but pushing on ‘cause they could and ‘cause it clinked and jangled appealingly when they did. 

Daryl’s bow twanged. 

Beth took out the smaller female with a kick to the back of her knees and a knife up under the base of her skull—pushing past the resistant crunch of cartilage and bone. She skipped aside as it slumped into the weeds and wiped off her knife on the ragged cotton of its shirt. 

She didn’t realize until after, stifling a yawn and watching Daryl pull an arrow from a skull, boot braced against another dead woman’s neck, that she’d not been afraid. She’d just killed it, preoccupied far more by other things— 

_Have I lost my mind? Thinkin’ some crush is more worth my attention than killin’ walkers? Than bein’ afraid?_

Daryl wasn’t afraid. Of walkers, anyway. 

Beth frowned. What _did_ he think about, if he wasn’t caught up in the terror of it—in the horror of human rot and hunger? 

A wet, cold breeze stirred against her skin, and Beth buried her fingers into her armpits, bare arms prickling with goosebumps.  

Daryl wiped off his hands and pulled a half-smoked cigarette from behind his ear and lit it. It shouldn’t’ve been intriguing, the way his cheeks hollowed, but it was. 

Beth’s stomach knotted up nervously, and she babbled, “Where'd you find those, anyway?" 

Daryl made some noise and gestured unhelpfully. 

Beth rolled her eyes. “You find anythin’ else?” 

“Din’t look.”

Hair blew into her mouth and she shouldered it away impatiently. Beth had slept something awful, up half the night watching him and then waking every time his hand moved against her. She felt anxious and cranky… and, now, she was cold.  "That’s stupid.  You’re just, jus’ givin' yourself lung cancer, y’know.  An’ rottin’ out your teeth.”  

"Well, ain’t you a ray’a sunshine.”  

“Ain’t _you_ a fool.” 

Daryl snorted, sucking hard at the cigarette until the end burned a hot red. He tossed it onto a dead walker and ground out the embers with the heel of his boot.  “I gotta piss.  You comin'?” 

Beth shrugged, shivering. 

He watched her suspiciously a moment before shrugging out of his button-up and vest. "Here," he growled, hauling his crossbow onto his back and stalking off into the foggy yard, belt buckle coming undone with a clank.  “C’mon.” 

His shirt smelled of cigarettes atop the usual Daryl smells of sweat and leather and pine sap and blood. Beth glared sulkily and followed after him.  It had rained sometime in the night, and water seeped through her jeans where the wet grass and weeds hit her mid-thigh.

Beth found a spot near some blackberry briars and squatted to pee, fiddling with the sheath of her Bowie knife as she propped it on her knee.  Her eyes flickered over to where Daryl stood some yards away, back to her and hip cocked, pissing against a fence post.  Her fingertips idly stroked the tooled leather as she traced the shape of his bare arms with her eyes.  

Catching herself, Beth quickly looked at her toes, nervously plucking at a few little daisies nestled against the dirt. 

She tucked one in her ponytail, fingers catching in the nested, oily tangles of her hair. 

Wind rattled the tin cans and the chains of the swing as she returned to the pile of walkers, nudging one idly with her boot. 

“Should we burn ‘em? If we’re gonna stay?” 

“Nah—just haul ‘em off down the road a bit.” Daryl paused.  “… You wanna stay?” 

"I dunno," Beth admitted, filled up with remembering the stranger’s smug eyes and then the hole of what was left of one—shot through by Daryl the same way he’d just put down a walker. "It’s gettin’ colder, but… Those men you saw. Can they track us here, d'y'think?" 

Daryl growled lowly, "They best pray they don'. Get a bullet or worse through their heads 'f they do." 

Beth felt queasy and said nothing, wrapping herself tighter in his shirt. 

"We're farther out than me an' Michonne ever got, though… Hey.” His fingers glanced stiffly along the leather covering her shoulder. “You… you still pissed at me, or somethin’?” 

Some muscles in her chest twisted up and Beth glanced at him, shaking her head.  Her heart flipped over itself a little, just looking at the unsure squint on his face and awkward tension in his shoulders. She whispered, “Jus’ slept bad.” 

Daryl frowned, muscle in his jaw twitching. 

Beth looked at her feet. "So, did you—you find anythin' in the barn last night?" 

He looked away. "Uh… din' actually go look." 

Beth couldn’t help but smile a little, at last—and couldn’t help teasing, “You didn’t, huh?” 

"Was pissed," Daryl defended crankily.  "Pissed at you, you'll recall." 

"Oh, I recall." 

Their eyes met and held. His narrowed, as if he was setting her in his sights—and like some stupid doe deer, she was unable to blink him away or move or glance off at the sound of crows or other birds waking. She could only stare back, pinned in place. 

His eyes were blue, something she'd not known before—not really. 

Beth blushed. 

Daryl twitched backwards, and her eyes dropped.  Distractedly, she eyed the old, browned smears and fox prints of blood on the peeled paint of the porch steps.  Her cheeks felt like they were on fire.

"Gonna find you somethin’ warmer than my damn shirt," Daryl muttered, slipping quickly by her onto the porch, screened door squeaking on its hinges and thumping against the frame.

Some part of Beth was tugged in after him.

 

**

 

*

 

A/N: Thanks so much, y'all, for the sweet comments to _Lessons_. x


	2. Chapter 2

**2\. ease and water**

 

They shoved the second walker in the ditch some quarter mile from the farmhouse, and the body settled with a few wet pops, flesh splitting. 

Beth turned away from the stink to catch her breath. “Good Lord.  D’you think it’s true, that dead weight’s heavier?” 

Daryl shrugged, lighting a cigarette.  It must’ve been his fourth, as if he were determined to smoke the entire pack before the morning was even begun. 

“I mean, that makes no sense, right? But…” Beth eyed the corpse.  It’d been like hauling a sack of rocks slung between them, but grosser—especially once its guts had gotten trailing through the weeds and gravel.  But the exercise had eased some of the nervous tension in her. “That was the longest fourth mile’a my life, I’m pretty sure. And there’s still the other one.” 

“Eh, it’s tiny. An’ I reckon it depends on how y’do it rather’n what you’re carryin’.” He blew off some smoke, head cocked to avoid sending it her direction. “Can get a buck over my shoulders and hike a couple’a miles—must weigh as much as that geek there did. Could do you, easy.” 

“ _Do_ me?” Beth was proud not to blush, though she had to glance away and stare speculatively at the walker’s abdominal fluids seeping out to avoid doing so.

“… Y’know, pick you up.  Haul your skinny ass off somewhere.” 

Beth had to look at him then, even if her cheeks got pink.  She teased, “That’s awfully romantic of you, Mr. Dixon. Threatenin’ to _haul_ me.  Like some deer.”  

To her surprise, he held her gaze and shrugged. “Y’can’t say a Dixon don’t know how to treat a woman.” 

Beth held her breath, afraid he was getting gloomy and self-deprecating again—but his lips and eyebrow quirked up on one side as he lifted the cigarette and sucked. 

Her smile went wider than she intended and she looked away, something giddy swirling around inside her. She teased, “See, y’do know a thing or two ‘bout romance.  A girl sure does love to spend time wrapped ‘round her man’s neck.” 

Daryl started to cough. 

Beth glanced at him, and strolled over to pluck the cigarette from his fingers and toss it under her boot.  “It’ll be an undignified death,  y’know— _Daryl Dixon_ , walker slayer and master bowhunter, done in by tar’n nicotine an’ hackin’ out his own lung.” 

“Ain’t the—” Daryl coughed again, and then shrugged.  He lifted his head, eyes narrowed in a way she was coming to learn was humor. “Best I kicked it here, though… Then you’d not have t’haul my sorry ass to this damn ditch after you put that little knife in my eye.” 

Beth sniffed and sassed, “Best you didn’t kick it at all, frankly.  An’ ain’t you heard’a feminism, Daryl Dixon?  My _little knife_ ’s as big as yours.” 

“Uh-huh.”

“Uh-huh,” Beth strolled back towards the farmhouse, cheeks warm and heart fluttering. 

The fog was burning off by the time they’d slung the third, littlest corpse into the ditch. They’d left the dead man on the porch swing, both of them uneasy with consigning his bones to the same fate. A dead man was a dead man, of course, but he’d never got up and walked. 

“Cow pond, there.” Daryl pointed to the left field.  

“ _Oh_.” Beth squeaked, biting back her excitement. “We could… I mean, not right now, but—where’re you goin’?” 

Daryl was making his way through the weeds and thistles, and he jumped up and over the fence. 

Beth blinked and followed him, skirting past the bleached bones of a cow jutting up from the unhayed field.   The pond was a decent size, some mallards and white farm ducks feeding on the far side. Grasshoppers had begun to buzz in the grass as the sun slowly warmed the air. 

“Should check out th’barn—go huntin’.” 

“Yeah.” 

Daryl rubbed at his nose. “Aw, fuck it.  Even I’m gettin’ tired of smellin’ like a damn geek.” He cocked the bow and handed it to her, shouldering out of his vest and the shearling-lined oilskin he’d found, dropping belt and knives and his zippo and the pack of scavenged cigarettes on the grass and dried mud. He toed out of his boots and socks, and then pulled off his new plaid button-up. 

Beth blinked—caught up in looking at how pale his chest was in the sunlight, and how brown his arms and neck and… he had that really big tattoo, sprawled across his right shoulder.  Her eyes traced the lines as he waded out into the reeds. 

“Ain’t you… gonna take your pants off?”

Daryl peered at her over his shoulder before huffing out a laugh. “Nah. ’F y’think moonshine’d make y’blind, my bare ass’d be sure to.” As he got deeper into the water, he hissed, “Shiiit’n _Christ_.” 

Beth grinned, propping the crossbow across her shoulder. “What, is it cold or somethin’?” 

“Shut up.” Daryl’s shoulders hunched as the water hit him at the waist. He muttered, “Fuuckin’ shit. Gonna lose my balls’n ‘ere.” 

Beth giggled.

“Said shut the hell up, Greene,” he hollered over his shoulder. “Or it’ll be this cold as hell water I’ll be haulin’ your girl ass into—freeze your sweet lil’ tits right off.  Mother _fuck_ …” 

Beth stilled and flushed. 

Daryl sank under the water and surfaced with a pained groan, scrubbing fingers through his hair and over his face, hands moving quickly and efficiently.  

“You’re real dirty.” Beth watched the grime streak across his cheeks. 

He flipped her the bird, then submerged again.

When he came back to the shore, his dripping pants looked fit to fall off his hips and sorta… clung. Beth tried not to look, watching instead as he shook his hair out like a dog. “Gonna need soap for this mess—‘s oily as shit.” 

Beth tugged at her own ponytail, pulling the wilted flower from her hair tie. “I’m gonna need a comb.” 

“You goin’ in?” 

“… Y’said it’s cold.” 

“If y’ain’t got the balls—” 

“Thought that was you?” 

“You,” he pointed at her nose with his knife as he rebuckled his belt. “Are gettin’ mouthy. In y’go, ‘fore I toss y’in. You stink same as me. That wood stove in the house might be shit for hot water.” 

Beth shrugged and pulled off her oversized thermal. (She’d wanted to ritually burn the _Southern Pride_ tee shirt, she really did, but practicality’d won out.  She’d teased Daryl that she’d cut the sleeves off and become a real Dixon, but he’d only eyed her funny and mumbled something under his breath. Probably some cuss. She still thought she’d do it, though.) 

She was wearing a little boy’s John Deere tee shirt underneath, and faded cotton panties under her jeans. Not looking at Daryl, she toed out of her boots and undid her belt and zipper, shimmying the denim down her legs. 

They’d done this before—taking turns bathing in creeks or ponds.  But they’d never really watched each other, and she’d never felt this kind of self-consciousness, the kind that had her half embarassed and half liking that he hadn’t turned around.  

Daryl didn’t say anything, not even when she shivered and squeaked as the water hit her knees, duckweed sticking to her skin.  “Lord _above_ ,” Beth whispered and then just sort of marched in deep.  She frantically undid her hair tie and sank under the water.  

Beth scrubbed at her skin, her armpits, her face, ducked deeper to pull her panties off and scrub them with the water.  She started shivering and clenched her teeth together. 

“… Ain’t the time for no skinnydippin’, Greene.” 

“I’m jus’ c-cleanin’ them. Real fast,” Beth’s teeth chattered. “Y-you’re luck-ky that y’don’ w-wear any.” 

She half-ran, half-fell through the reeds and out of the pond, and suddenly her view of the fields and cow bones and crisp morning sunshine was obscured by shearling fluff as Daryl dried her off with his coat. 

“Take off that shirt, ‘fore you’re hypothermic.  Christ.” 

Beth did, hearing it slap wetly on the dried mud under her toes. “Th-that was—was c-colder’n I thought.” 

Daryl’s voice was gruff as he rubbed at her arms. “Y’ve got no fat on you, is why.  Take them underpants off, too.”  He bent to pick up her jeans. 

“Yes, sir,” she teased, but her cheeks still managed to go warm as she shimmied out of her panties and into her jeans. 

Beth looked across the fields and treelines as they made their way to the farmhouse, watching for movement, and she got thinking anxiously, again, of the stranger’s friends.  She and Daryl had run far and deep through the woods to find this farm, far from any direct roads, but a good tracker could follow them just the same.  She knew Daryl could’ve, had he been on her heels. 

“So would you… would you really kill them? Those men.  If they followed us here.” 

Daryl stopped walking and squinted at her. 

“I just—just how do we know, know if they… if they’d…” 

He hissed out a breath through his teeth. “Do I really gotta explain men to you?” 

“ _Men_?” she said, incredulous. “Not all men would—”

“I know,” he growled harshly. His voice dropped. “’S not what I mean. But men like that? Men’d hunt a girl and keep her fed just to fuck her? There ain’t no laws for that now—” 

“I _know_ , but… but _killing_ … with Rick, remember when Mr. Walsh, with that kid, when—” 

“Hell.” Daryl threw up an arm angrily and spat into the weeds. “Don’t have fuckin’ time for this. That was _before_ —an’ Rick’d killed live men before that, too, protectin’ the farm. The thing with Shane… hell, that ain’t the fuckin’ _point_ , Beth.” 

 _Before_ , so many _befores_ —before, she’d been a junior in high school, dreaming of Nashville and getting a teaching degree.  Before, she’d been Judith’s sometime momma, and she’d never had alcohol and she’d never killed walkers without sweating some in fear.

Now— 

His tone was scornful, “An’ anyway, Grimes ain’t here.  You worried I’m trigger-happy, ‘s that it?  That I’m a killer?” 

“That’s not—” 

He leaned in close to her face, eyes chilled, angry slits. “Well, let me get it clear f’r you—I am.” 

Anger flared up in Beth, and her ears went hot. “ _Daryl_ ,” she grabbed his arm. “That _ain’t_ what I meant! I meant, is it _fair_ to just—”  

“Aw, screw this shit,” he wrenched away from her, face twisting and voice lowering to a menacing rasp. “You listen up—those sumbitches come here?  Ain’t gonna request they clarify their Goddamn intentions.  I’m’a bury rifleshot in their skulls, an’ I won’t be askin’ some god’a yours for no forgiveness—won’t be askin’ for _yours_ , neither.” 

“Daryl.” 

Beth grit her teeth in frustration as he ignored her and stalked off toward the barn.

  

**

 

* 

 

A/N: Daryl’s moodier than a damn cat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Coyote is pronounced _kye-oat_. I can't imagine Daryl or Beth saying it _kye-oh-tee_... and, obviously, it bothers me greatly that it might be read that way. ;) x

**3\. soap and heat**

 

Daryl had his blood-stained, muddied boots on the dining table, knife glinting. 

Beth scowled. "You’n me both know where those've been." 

"’S this your table?” 

Beth rolled her eyes and said nothing, continuing to scrub.  

He'd been ornery after they'd argued, and his mood had only gotten worse since they found the truck in the barn, full of diesel with a spare key up under the driver-side door. They could have packed up supplies and left the farm then—gone back to where they’d been. They could have started looking, again, for signs of Rick and Maggie, killing any walkers drawn to the engine’s noise, praying they didn’t run into the strangers or run out of fuel… 

They hadn’t. 

Beth knew her own mind—it was anxious, scared of all sorts of things… dead and living. She couldn’t read Daryl, though. He’d only stared at the old Ford before stalking off and lighting up his fifth cigarette. 

He’d not smoked another since, though. 

Now she was cleaning the grime and blood from their socks and shirts, courtesy of a hand pumped well and the farmhouse’s wood-burning stove.  The steam from the soapy water had her face flushed and her hair damp and curling. Despite the hard work and despite Daryl’s awful mood, it felt heavenly. 

It was also something to do other than stare at the surreal picture of Daryl Dixon in a plain, ordinary tee shirt and no dirt on his face. 

"'F we stayed, could start tannin' these." He tossed a bloody rabbit skin onto the table. 

The meat was boiling with rice and black-eyed peas, and they'd been sipping on the broth all afternoon, eating canned vegetables and heating up more water to wash her hair with, later. 

Beth ignored him. 

Daryl mounted a little rabbit skull on the tip of his knife and twirled it, watching her. "Get th'brains out, mash 'em up real good." 

Beth wrinkled her nose and grit her teeth when he smirked. 

His chair creaked as he rocked back on it. "Y'gotta flesh the hide, peel all the fat an' shit off. Really scrape at it awhile. Wash it up.  Then y'stretch it out… real _tight_." 

Beth stilled mid-wash. She lifted her face. 

Daryl's eyes were slitted, brows lifted—as if daring her. "Y'gotta rub the fat in. Couple'a times." 

Beth felt her already pink cheeks prickle.  _You're losin' your mind, Beth Greene.  He's just tryn'a gross you out 'cause he's bored an’ pissy._  

"Could get the hide all supple, soften it up.  Smoke it.  And rabbit fur's real soft." He flicked a fingernail along the edge of his knife. In a gruffer, softer voice, he added, "Could make you somethin'.  Some moccasins or little slippers t'sleep in?" 

Beth blinked and sort of choked. "Oh.” 

She stared into the dirty, soapy water on the chair in front of her.  Her hands clenched around folds of cloth.  He was apologizing, in his own way, and she didn’t know quite what to say.  “If… If y'wanted?  That’d be real nice."  She looked up. 

They stared at each other for a few moments, his chair's legs creaking at a tilt along the floor. His eyes were still hard and ornery.  Despite that (or ‘cause of it) Beth felt the now familiar heat start to pulse and curl between her legs.  Her body didn’t seem to care much whether he was being sweet or being an asshole, which… 

Nervously, she licked her lips. 

Daryl looked away first, shifting in his chair. His expression tightened with an irritated scowl. 

Not wanting him to go all surly and silent again, Beth spoke quickly. “Hey—I’m sorry about… y’know, this mornin’.  I didn’t, wasn’ tryin’ to—” 

“’S fine,” he muttered roughly with a stiff shrug, eyes on the floor. 

Beth sighed. “I wasn’t tryin’ t’make you feel bad.” 

“Said, it’s fine.” 

“I know it’s… I mean, I used to help my dad with housecalls, y’know?  Back when I was ridin’ more and real into 4H and all. And… he had to, _y’know_ , sometimes.  Like when a horse colicked, or a dog got bit by a skunk.” She didn’t add that she’d cried, every time. 

Beth watched him carefully, and Daryl’s shoulders relaxed a little.  

After a long few moments, he mumbled, “‘M not meant f’r thinkin’ through the right and wrong of shit, when it’s all blurry.  Things’re so… I don’… an’ y’know ‘bout how it was with my… dad.” He shifted uncomfortably. 

Beth’s heart clenched. “Yeah.” 

“… I ain’t like Rick.” He glanced at her. “Ain’t like you.” 

“But… I don’t know what t’do, neither,” Beth admitted softly. “I jus’ don’t want you t’think I’m afraid of you… of your instincts, or nothin’.  You’re a good man, and I know that.” 

“So y’keep sayin’…” His smirk was bitter. 

“I do.” Beth hauled some cleaned clothes from the water, eager to soothe the conversation away—“Seems these socks’a yours were white after all.  White-ish.  Pale brown? Though, this shirt…” She pulled up the sleeveless, faded plaid.  “It’s in a real sorry state, still.” 

“I like that shirt.” 

“Why?” 

Daryl shrugged. “Fell down those damn cliffs and flatrocks with it.  At your dad’s farm.” 

“An’ you’ve been wearing it ever since, I’m pretty sure.” 

“Damn right. Ain’t no need to be wasteful, Greene.” 

Beth wrung it out, careful not to worsen the many tears and holes.  She glanced over at him. “There’s a difference between bein’ wasteful and havin’ a notion of common sense.” 

“Tha—"

Daryl was interrupted by a low, long whine from the direction of the porch.  In an instant he was on his feet and stalking down the hall, bow cocked.  Beth followed after toeing into her cowgirl boots, knife ready.  It'd been a strange noise—not rightly human, but weird for a walker. 

"The hell?" 

Beth peered around Daryl's shoulder to see a brindle-coated hound dog lurking on the porch, her ears nervously cast back and tail between her legs as she watched them. She was muddy, with burrs caught on her legs and a radio collar around her neck. 

Daryl gently eased open the screened door, and in a skittish flurry and the clinking of tinned cans, the dog was gone.  Daryl frowned, eyes narrow as he searched the darkening yard.  Then he shut the doors and locked up. 

Nerves jittered under Beth’s skin. “D’y’think she’s… she’s with those men?” 

He chewed on his thumbnail.  “… Nah. Didn’t seem to have no dog with ‘em, before, and that bitch was mangy as shit.  Probably just some stray, knows enough not to get bit by walkers—smelled us cookin’.” 

Beth sighed, returning to the stove to taste the fragrant stew.  She tasted a spoonful, and decided the black-eyed peas were done. “Maybe… she’ll be back. Be ours?” 

Daryl shrugged. “Probably more trouble’n she’s worth.”

The kitchen was going dark now that the sun had set, and Beth cranked open the potbelly of the stove so the flames lit the room; they’d not found many candles, and didn’t want to waste what they had.  She returned to the washtub, fishing out her now sleeve-less _Southern Pride_ tee and wringing it out. 

Daryl pulled the kitchen curtains shut, using cans of tinned tomatoes to keep the fabric against the sill. 

“Can I… can I ask you somethin’?” 

Daryl helped himself to a bowl of soup and was picking the meat out with his fingers, sucking off the juices.  “Mm. Guess so.” 

“So… this mornin’? With the walkers?  I was just… thinkin’ about other stuff, y’know?  When I put down that little one.  Went all, kick and karate chop, avoid the brains, an’ done.” 

He shrugged. “Y’did fine.” 

“No, I know, I jus’… usually it’s me feeling scared along with all the adrenaline. But… I wasn’t scared, really. And maybe I would’a been, if I’d had to do all three or somethin’. What… do you think about? When you kill ‘em.” 

Daryl’s eyes narrowed at her. 

“I mean. They don’t scare you?” 

“Nah…” He tipped his bowl, drinking the steaming broth. “Relative t’livin’ folks, walkers ain’t so bad t’manage, ‘less they’re pilin’ up.  Hell, takin’ down an angry ass dog like that Plott hound bitch’d be harder.  But… I’m not stupid or nothin’.” He squinted at her, suspicious that she thought so. 

Beth shook her head quickly.  “No, I know.” 

After a pause, Daryl grumbled, “Thinkin’ with my gut, I guess.  Anticipatin’ where it’ll swerve, where it’s mouth is, where the others are—where my knife is and where I need t’sink it, t’get to th’brain… Why, what were you thinkin’ of?” 

Beth blushed and looked down, wringing out some more socks. “Oh, just… things. Girl things.” 

“… Girl things. That what you do, y’wake up, think’a _girl things_?  Like what, tampons or somethin’?” 

Beth rolled her eyes. “No. Like… I dunno. Boys.” 

He squinted at her like she was an idiot. “Boys?  The hell, Beth?  Killin’ walkers an’ thinkin’a _boys_?” He slouched back in his chair and scratched at his hair, eyeballing her. 

Beth flushed, mortified. “No.  I mean. I mean, not like that. I’d just had a weird, um, dream… And, my head was so full of it, an’ then it was like I was on some walker-killing autopilot.” 

He frowned. “Y’gotta pay attention—” 

“I know.” She said quickly.  “I jus’… guess I still don’t rightly know what I’m doin’, y’know?  It just happens.  I mean, it’s like, you’re this wolf or this coyote… huntin’ things, all sly an’ cunning an’ stuff.  You know what to do and how fast and—and definitely not thinkin’a _girls_ or somethin’ silly,” Beth smiled awkwardly, and he just stared at her.  “Anyway, an’ I’m just… followin’ you around.  But, while you’re a wolf, I’m just, like, like a doe deer. Like Bambi.” 

Daryl’s shoulders loosened and his teeth glinted. “Bambi, huh?” He snorted a laugh. 

“Oh, shut up.” 

“Nah—though, y’ve got them big doe eyes, for sure—” He looked down, fingers twitching, and cleared his throat. “But y’ain’t no deer.  No deer’d follow around some wolf.” 

“Maybe I’m a real stupid deer.”  

But she knew she wasn’t—following Daryl was probably the smartest thing she could do, all things considered.  And there was no way a Dixon was a buck deer, no matter what.  Daryl was a hunter to his bones.

“Y’ain’t. Reckon you’re jus’ learning—said you weren’t scared?  That’s probably what’s got y’all tied up. You’re just… I dunno, a baby bitch coyote.  With’at blonde hair’a yours.” 

Beth choked on a laugh, and he hung his head to hide an embarassed smile. 

“I suppose.” She made herself a bowl of stew and blew on a spoonful.  Then, all careful, she asked softly, “You… think I’m a baby?” 

“Nah.  I mean.” Daryl squinted at her suspiciously, then rubbed his eyes. “Wait. What’re we talkin’ about?” 

Beth looked away. “Nothin’.” 

 

 

**

 

*

 

A/N: I hope y'all're enjoying this. I certainly am. Next, into the woods we go... x


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ah, the half-way point. Time for a mood swing (worthy of a Dixon, even).
> 
> Warning: Graphic Violence.

**4\. bitch and kill**

 

Beth woke on her back, sudden and sweating, from a dream where the stranger hadn't died. 

There was something heavy and still on her belly—a man’s hand, and with a confused gasp she grabbed it, the echo of fear choking her.  In an instant, Daryl jerked to sitting, the fingers under hers clutching at shirt and skin through the quilt.  

Relief flushed through her, and Beth sucked in a ragged breath. 

“Beth?” His voice was thick with sleep. His hand loosened its grip on her and pushed her into the bed as he rose onto his knees.  Soft moonlight caught on his raised Bowie knife. 

Beth shook her head, heart still racing when he finally looked down at her.  She rasped, “No—it’s not—’s just a—.” She squeezed cold fingers around his wrist.  The glint from the knife blurred, though Beth couldn’t quite remember what in the dream had made her cry.  “It was jus’… just a nightmare’r somethin’.” 

“Y’sure?” 

She nodded. 

Daryl hissed a slow, long exhale and stopped resisting her hands.  He thumped back onto the mattress and settled facing her, body taut as a bowstring.  He let Beth wind her fingers with his as she curled closer, though he grumbled quietly and slumped back onto his back.  

Beth settled his hand and hers back on her belly and stared up at the still, long-dead ceiling fan above them.  The dream had faded to muted colors and the prickle of nameless fear.  Sleep pulled her in.  

She woke at dawn to Daryl shuffling out of bed, hand slipping off her. 

“Gotta piss.” His voice was low and growly and tired. 

Beth nodded, stretching. “I’m com—” 

“Nah.  Rest.” 

She stilled, nervous at being alone and uneasy from the nightmare— _but I gotta get used to it, t’not orbiting ‘round him like some moon, right?_ Especially now that they had a house and a truck.  ( _Especially_ now that she craved to be even closer, still.)  
  
Besides, the thought of sleeping in felt a little glorious. 

“Don’t go far,” she whispered, cuddling into the heat he’d left behind and staying there, dozing and content, for another hour.  She dreamed again—but they were only forest dreams, of eagles and lighting fires and dancing away from dead hands. 

Beth had gone to bed with wet, clean hair (the both of them had), and by the time she wandered into the kitchen, it was a wild, flossy mane. 

Daryl was poking at the flames in the potbelly of the stove, chewing on an unlit cigarette, pot of stew and teakettle already warming up.  A dead gray squirrel was on the dining table. 

Beth drew open the curtains, blinking sleepily at the pinking sky.   She stretched, bones in her spine cracking nicely.  

She didn’t hit a single tangle when she ran experimental fingers through her hair.  “D’you know how t’do braids?” 

“Th’hell? Nah.” 

Beth smirked, watching the fields. “My dad used to do mine.  And Maggie’s, ‘fore she cut it off in college.” 

“Ain’t your dad.” 

They were sipping Liptons tea and eating stew when the Plott hound whined pitifully again, this time by the kitchen door.  Daryl grabbed the squirrel from the table and stalked over to unlock and open it. 

"What you doin', dog?" he murmured as he went out, eyes scanning around the empty yard. The hound twitched and circled nervously, before laying herself anxiously at Daryl’s feet, tail thumping in the weeds. 

Beth leaned against the doorframe and watched as he crouched and soothed her dark fur and unlatched the dead collar.  It felt akin to first seeing him feed Judith, contented and proud in a way that had upended Beth's understanding of men a little bit—certainly her understanding of him, gruff bowman that he was.  She'd been struck with wondering if he'd ever been a father, and if not, _why_ not.  It had been an idle thought at the time—and now she knew why not. 

‘Course, now, she got that stupid fluttering in her stomach too.  And she wondered what it’d be like, having his hands on her skin like that. 

"Yer'all right, huh, ain't'ya, Bitchy?" Daryl crooned as the dog whined and nosed at his knees. "Not a bad girl, are ya, not at all." 

"Bitchy? Seriously?" 

Daryl scratched at the dog's ears, and her tail moved frantically. "Reckon so—'cause she's a girl, and a dog.  Lookit them teats."  

Beth snorted. "You're awful at namin' things, Daryl Dixon." 

He chuckled, twisting out some of the burrs stuck to her legs.  "Well, you let me know if y'think'a somethin' better, Beth Greene." 

They spent the day taking stock of the house—Daryl finally got its gun safe open with a crowbar and some precise physical violence, and they emptied out the rot in the fridge, hauling it to where they’d dumped the walkers.  They packed up an emergency stash for the truck—Beth’d found a map in the house, so they knew where they were now… and from the way Daryl squinted at the roads and contour lines, she figured they’d be doing runs soon and narrowing down where their family might’ve dispersed to, had they lived.

The next morning, Beth first woke when Daryl did, curling again into his side of the bed once he was on his feet.  He smoked a cigarette in the window, and then his fingers glanced across on her shoulder—he told her to rest, said that he was gonna go hunt.  

But the second time, after easy dreams, Beth woke to the sound of voices. 

At first, that didn’t make sense, as Daryl had only just started talking consistently to her and certainly didn’t to himself. 

“… Nah—saw ‘im leave.” 

Beth froze under the quilt. 

The screened door squeaked and the front door rattled.  A second voice spoke, “Locked. Upstairs window’s open.” 

“… up the fuckin’ wall?” The first voice lifted, calling, “You in there, darlin’?  Saw yer man went out t’play hunter, huh? Left y’fer us.” 

Beth’s blood ran cold and she leapt out of the bed and tugged on her boots, heart hammering in her ears. 

 _No._  

She frantically looked around, instinct telling her to hide—but, it wasn’t like she could hide under the bed, right?  And the farmhouse was old, and had no true closets, and—they’d find her even if so. She shakily grabbed her knife and then paused, sheathing it and picking up the pistol on Daryl’s night stand. 

The curtains were all drawn at the front door and in the living room as Beth crept silently down the stairs. 

There was a solid, lazy knock at the door. “Know yer’n there, blondie—unlock this f’r us, huh?” The voice lowered to a whisper, “Check th’back door… I’s let you have dibs on’ers later, too—I claim first in th’front.” 

They snickered and the tin cans clinked. 

Beth closed her eyes in horror and swallowed down bile.  She called out, “Go away.” 

“… Well, well. Hey, there, honey—you gonna let us in? We been walkin’ a lo-ong damn time t’see you.  C’d use a littl’a your south’rn hospitality. Some’a yer _sweet_ tea.” 

“Go away!” 

The world was slowing to a horrid crawl.  Beth could hear the other stranger at the kitchen door, too; the ticking creaks of the lock being picked. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her jaw so hard her teeth hurt, sweat trickling from her armpits and her spine and the back of her knees.  

 _God, help me—I don’t have time.  There ain’t enough time anymore._ A strange, detached coolness seeped through her body, just like it had in the general store, and she took the saftely off the semi-automatic with increasingly steady fingers as if watching someone else doing it.  As if watching Daryl’s hands do it, but now they were smaller and softer and hadn’t ever had to— 

 _C’mon, c’mon._  

“I’m’a be real sweet t’ya, darlin’—do it like y’need it done, better’n your boy’d do.”

Maggie’s face and wide, beautiful smile filled Beth’s head; her words, _I jus’ went for it, I knew enough._ Maggie’d been talking about Glenn, about love, about trust… And what was left now, when there wasn’t time, but what Beth could trust?

Daryl's voice was a hard rasp in her head. _Aim like y’would a rifle.  Keep both eyes open._  

The stranger was crooning about her pretty little ass and what he intended to do to it when Beth threw open the front door and shot him dead between his eyes. 

The shot was like a crack of thunder and the whole back of his skull shattered out into the yard like a watermelon hit with a shotgun, and _God, it ain’t time for no metaphors and oh, my_ God— 

Beth stared, wide-eyed, as his body collapsed, gushing and twitching as nerves fired wildly and died. She swallowed back the sudden surge of nausea, ducking behind the corpse on the porch swing as the stranger’s friend shouted and came running around the side of the farmhouse. 

“Len!  Thought jus’ the girl was in there—” 

 _I’m sorry_. 

“Len—th’hell is—!” 

She shot at him, hitting his shoulder with a wet thunk—and he screamed loud enough to be heard over the ringing in her ears.  He fell hard onto his side and was scrambling to point his rifle toward the porch. 

“Y’stupid fuck’n _cunt_! What’re—” 

 _Keep both eyes open_. 

Beth shot again. And again and again, until she couldn’t see straight from the tears blurring in her eyes. 

 _God, I’m so sorry_. _So sorry_. 

When the man fell silent, Beth bent and vomited, limbs cold and shaking and horror surging up like a tidal bore in her gut.  Somewhere, the dog was barking, growling and frantic.  Crows were mobbing and cawing.  She dropped the pistol on the porch—and, _God_ , there was live blood and brains sprayed across her hands and thermal and despite every voice inside her she looked directly at the body crumpled on the doormat, blood dribbling down the front steps from the pulpy mess of his head.   

Beth stared. 

Under him, she could see the upper limb and cables and wheel of a compound bow, and there was a bloodied rabbit tied on his belt. 

 _Just like him. Always like him. Why’re they different and cruel, why can’t they all be… all be_ good _, all be okay…_  

Beth stepped slowly over the stringed up cans and blood and into the yard, legs shaky as a newborn foal’s.  Her eyes darted through the grass, searching—there, amongst the scattered pieces of the stranger’s skull, were his and the rifleman’s tracks, coming in from the south. And there, less distinct, were Daryl’s—drawn out across the smaller field to the northern stands of oak and pine.  She stumbled in that direction, right hand clutched on the hilt of her Bowie knife. 

The dawn was blooming, pink and moist—birds were cheeping in the fencerows, the swallows diving as insects woke; a few bullfrogs croaked from the pond. Beth crawled over the fence, the wire creaking.  The hay field spread out before her like a golden, swaying carpet, seed heads bumping her elbows. 

Daryl came out of forest ahead of her a mere two minutes later—the longest two minutes of her life. Seeing him, something inside her seized up and came apart, and she sucked in a shaking, wet breath. And then the tremble was gone from her legs and she began to run. 

He had his bow cocked and raised until he spotted her. 

His bow hit the grass, voice gruff with relief as he caught his breath, “Beth—what the—” 

“I’m so sorry,” she half-fell, half-ran into him and cried into the front of his shirt. “I’m so s-sorry.” 

“What—heard shots… there a herd or somethin’? Tha’ bear dog bitch act up?” 

Beth met his eyes. “ _No_ ,” she whispered in a tiny, bare voice.   

Daryl stilled. Then his head jerked up to look toward the farmhouse, and his confused eyes became deadly, slitted steel. “ _Stay_ ,” he snarled, eyes sliding down her assessingly; something like hate twisted his mouth as he snatched up his bow.  Beth sank into the tall grass, wrapping her arms around herself.  

“I’m sorry,” Beth whispered to the mottled, rusty grasshopper that crept along a narrow stalk in front of her, seeking the sun.  She wanted to reach out, to touch its wings and feel the tiny prickles of its insect feet against her fingers, but… she couldn’t. 

Both she and the grasshopper jumped when there was another gunshot.  Beth grit her teeth and closed her eyes. 

She felt so, so cold. 

She was humming _Amazing Grace_ to herself, what her momma had always done when she or Shawn or even Maggie’d been sick, when the grass snapped and Daryl’s dirty boots appeared in her peripheral vision. They had fresh blood on them, and Beth looked away.  

He crouched in front of her, fingers ghosting stiffly across her shoulders. “Hey.” 

Beth swallowed thickly, staring at anything but him. 

“… It’s a’right.” 

She shook her head. 

Daryl sighed raggedly, head hanging, and then he pulled her up against his chest, arm slipping under her butt.  He stood with a grunt, bringing her up with him. 

Beth trembled and tentatively wrapped her legs around his hips—she’d carried Judith this way, before. Once upon a time. Her bloody fingers wrapped into the collar of his plaid and leather. 

“Y’don’t—don’t need you t’carry me,” she whispered dully as he walked. 

“Said I could ‘f I wanted. Heavier’n you look, though.” 

He carried her to the house.  The strangers’ bodies weren’t anywhere she could see, though the porch was smeared with clotted blood and gore.  A compound bow, quiver, rifle, and a few knives and boxes of ammo were propped next to the screened door. 

Daryl took her inside and dropped her unceremoniously into the musty softness of the couch. He tugged off her splattered thermal, cleaning off her hands with it. “Y’did good, Beth—did just fine.”  His voice was a low, soothing rasp. 

“I k-ki—” Her fingernails dug into back of her hands as goosebumps rose along her arms. 

“Shhh. Yeah, an’ now they won’t hurt no one else, a’right? Y’did perfect.  Real perfect.” 

He wetted his bandana and cleaned up her face, gentle but firm—crooning softly like she was Judith or the dog or some other small, animal thing.  Calling her sweetheart, as if he was proud of her. 

Beth’s heart couldn’t even flip for it. 

Her tears dried up for good a half hour later.  She stood at the front door, wrapped in the quilt from their bed—Daryl’d washed water across the floorboards so that the blood was a vague, rusted smear. He’d packed up backpacks for them—sleeping rolls, canned peas, bottled wellwater.   He was now moving blankets and straw onto the porch. 

He growled, “Bitch should’a been up here. Watchin’ out f’r you.” 

“They’d’a shot her,” Beth said dully, though her heart managed an ache at the thought. 

“Maybe. Maybe not. Could’a been she’d piss herself and love on ‘em like she did with us… or could’a been she’d tear out their bellies with’er teeth.” 

Beth stared at him in horror. 

“Uh.” His eyes softened with quick, earnest shame.  He whispered gruffly, “Gotta see who she is though, don’t we?  Ain’t got no time to shield her.” Daryl’s tone dropped at the end, his lips thinning to a hard, angry line.  His fingers glanced a final time across the dog’s brindled head as he tossed the dead rabbit that the bowman’d had into the straw. “We’ll be back, y’hear, Bitch?” 

He gently unwound Beth from the quilt and hefted up a pack and his crossbow and the stranger’s full quiver.  She pulled on her own backpack and locked up the house. 

Beth followed close at his heels as they headed on foot to the northwest, eyes locked on his familiar back. As the trees closed in around them, the relief was almost enough to get her crying again.

  

**

 

*

 

A/N: Thanks for all your sweet comments so far, friends.  As before, the next chapter should be up soon. x


	5. Chapter 5

**5\. what’s close**

 

 _Before_ , Beth had thought the hardest thing she’d ever live through would be watching her mother die of fever, curly hair matted with sweat and skin purpling from septicemia, the festering bite hidden under the quilt.  It’d been harder, though, recalling those beloved, familiar hands clawing at her, cold and rotten—Beth hadn’t wanted, much, to live with knowing how that felt. But she had.  

Then, came harder things. Lori ripped apart and all the blood and Judith wailing like only a newborn human could, enough to break your heart.  And then, her daddy on his knees, and… She’d thought that’d be the hardest. 

 _It ain’t_.  Not today. 

Today, she’d killed two men.  One, direct in his face.

 _You did fine, he said y’did fine. Perfect._   

_They were bad men._

_Y’did fine._  

Beth wanted to run and run and never look behind her.  She wanted to follow Daryl’s winged back into the remotest parts of the Cohutta mountains, where they’d sleep like bears until some spring came and rebirthed her and the entire world, whole.  

A rough, raspy groan sounded around the hillside ahead of them, leaves crackling. 

Daryl’s shoulders relaxed. 

The world needed rebirthing, Beth figured, when the walking dead were the easy part. 

They found a torn-up walker leg in a rusted coyote trap, the geek itself snarling slowly along the forest floor.  Beth watched its progress; she didn’t often wonder, anymore, who they’d been, but she did now. 

Beth looked up as Daryl nudged her with the crossbow, gaze shuttered and careful. 

She stared at him a moment, before she took it and braced her boot in the stirrup, teeth gritted as she began to haul back the string—getting it farther than she had before. Daryl bent over her, thumbs brushing her hands.  “Here—l’go. I got it.”  It was the first thing he’d said to her since they’d entered the woods, hours ago.

Beth exhaled slowly as he slid one of their new arrows into the nock.  She lifted the bow, Daryl close at her back; he had one palm braced on her hip and was staring down the sights with her, and Beth allowed herself to get lost, a little, in the warm buzz of his proximity. He was so close that she could feel his thighs brushing against her butt and his exhales stirring the curly wisps of hair at her neck.  She wanted to lean back and sleep. 

She shot the crawling walker in the eye. 

“Good shot,” he murmured. 

Beth nodded, lowering the bow and staring idly at the mouldering leaves and acorns and pine cones under her feet as she moved forward to retrieve the arrow. 

They cleared a small herd soon after, the adrenaline-fed rhythm of which Beth found herself absurdly grateful for.  It was easy, the way inhaling Daryl’s smells and presence was easy.  

After that, the forest was quiet but for the soft crackle of their footsteps and the noises of birds and chipmunks and squirrels; the latter were chattering and frisking about, frantically storing up nuts and seeds for the winter. 

Daryl crouched on the trail, and he huffed out a low, pleased sound.  His eyes met hers. “Pig shit.” His whole face had lit up and gone boyish, and Beth’s heart lifted some with it.  “Gone feral, most like—see here, they been rootin’ around.” He flicked an acorn into the air with the tip of his knife, settling onto his haunches.  

He eyed the disturbed bushes and dug up roots speculatively. 

“Gonna hunt it?” Beth asked, quiet.

“Nah—not now.  Not ‘less we…” He glanced at her and stood.  He poked at her arm with two fingers before moving forward through the woods. “Y’doin’ okay?”

Beth looked down. “Jus’ been thinkin’. ‘Bout stuff.” Idly, she rubbed the almost invisible scar on her left wrist, hidden under her cuffs and string bracelets; the cut had been shallow and half-hearted, and in another year, it wouldn’t even be visible.  

 _Just like her face… can’t remember how Momma looked, or Shawn_ —

Suddenly Daryl’s thumbs were flicking hers out of the way, pushing hard and urgent into her skin. “Hey. _Hey_. No.” 

Beth blinked at him. 

“You—you _tell_ me, y’hear, if somethin’ gets in yer head like this. If somethin’ starts makin’ you think you don’t want t’—” He swallowed. “Y’ain’t gonna do that—ain’t a fuckin’ option.” 

Beth stared at him. “What’re you… oh.” She shook her head, frustrated.  “Daryl. I just… just killed two people for my own life.  Two.” She looked down at her wrist where he gripped it.  His skin was darker than hers and dirty, the nails all bit up. “I… know y’think that, before, I just, just cut my wrist for attention, but—” 

He twitched. “Was drunk’n jus’ bein’ a fuckin’ asshole, Beth—” 

“ _But_ , it wasn’t that… and it weren’t really, like, a real ‘opt out’ anyway.  I jus’… couldn’t get her hands out of my head.  My momma’s.  And I’d never almost died before—never felt like that.  Had t’do somethin’—Daddy should’a just given me a rifle.” 

Daryl’s thumb pressed between the tendons on her wrist. 

“I mean—he wouldn’t’ve, and I din’t even eat meat then, so I wouldn’t’ve thought it’d make sense, lettin’ the fear and hurt out that way.  But.” Beth shrugged.  “It’s different now.” 

Daryl stared at her searchingly for a long few moments before sucking in a long steady breath, nodding and letting her wrist go.  “A’right.  Jus’… me and you’s a team.  Me, and you.” He poked her sternum just below and beween her clavicles. 

Beth tried for sass, “Can’t rely on any one t’survive, Daryl Dixon,” but her lower lip trembled instead. 

His eyes became intense, cold slits. “There’re different kinds’a survivin’.  Different kinds’a reliance.  Don’t be mindin’ a Dixon for your life lessons, ‘specially if he’s lit.” 

Beth didn’t have the heart to argue.  She nudged a pine cone with her boot, instead. 

“A’right. C’mon.” He stalked off. 

She followed. Some of the hollow ache in her chest was less, as if Daryl’s anger and the forceful jab of his fingers were some kind of medicine.  The quiet between them weighed heavier now, though, so Beth took a breath and muttered, “So… that dog?” 

Daryl glanced back at her. 

“What d'you think of Betty? Or Betsy.  Instead of Bitchy. Or maybe somethin’ completely different—like Jewel?" 

He snorted. 

"Tryn'a think of a name.  A better name. I reckon Jewel's okay." 

" _Jewel_ ," Daryl sounded unimpressed. "Tha'sa damn poor name for a bear dog bitch." 

"You've _no_ place t'talk.  It's a pretty name; a singer's name, besides.  Better'n Bitchy or, or Hunter or Thrasher or Bear-claw or somethin'." 

"Bear-claw?" 

"She's a girl. She deserves a pretty name." 

"Christ," he muttered, shaking his head. 

She tsked. "We got soap now, Daryl Dixon.  Could wash out your mouth with it." 

He sighed softly and then mocked, "Yes, ma’am.” 

Beth grinned a little. She was tempted to tap her cheek and see if he'd the manners to kiss it, but her heart was still too sore. 

"A singer, huh." 

"Jewel? Yeah." 

After a pause, he grumbled, "So… what're you? Elizabeth or Bethany Greene?" 

"Um, Bethany. Bethany Ann." 

"Beth Ann." He smirked into the trees. 

She teased in retort, "Y'know, there's an actress with _your_ name." 

He growled, "Ain't no girl's name, though." 

"She was in Splash—as a mermaid. And a bad guy in those Kill Bill movies." 

"Your dad let you watch those?" 

"No. I watched them at Sadie's, when I'd sleep over.  Her brother had the DVDs." 

"And y'all would play that drinkin' game." 

"I told you I never did. That was my first time, with you." Beth slowed to collect some grapes, the woody vines hanging long and heavy over the branches of some poplars and pines.  

Daryl popped some of the tart green fruits into his mouth, watching her. 

"She was killed by a snake, y'know, the girl Daryl.  In Kill Bill." 

"I ain't afraid'a no snakes." 

"I reckon they're afraid'a you." 

Daryl chuckled. "Killed my first rattler when I was eight." He scratched his head and added, almost embarrassed, "Din't eat it or nothin', though." 

Beth rolled her eyes, something soft in what’d been hollow in her chest. 

* 

They weren’t only running to keep ahead and watchful of any more strangers; Daryl’d brought the map with them, figuring they could get a sense of the land and its worth. 

The first neighboring farm they found was a burnt out shell, stone hearth and chimney blackened and cracked.  There was a craggy orchard of pear and apple trees and some overgrown plots boxed in by a rusted deer-proof fence.  While Daryl took down the few stray walkers milling about by a busted up RV, Beth gathered up the heads of the collards gone to seed and what tomatoes hadn't fallen to rot, cutting two small squash pumpkins free of their vines with her knife. 

At the back of the property there was a dirt track choked with sumac and thistles tall as Beth’s shoulders.  It led up into the woods, and they followed it for a couple of miles until it opened out into a meadow with a decrepit deer stand and one-room hunter’s cabin nestled between some old white pines. 

They ate roast squirrel and grapes and broccoli tops before the gathering dusk, silent and tired and wrapped up in their jackets as the wind picked up and the temperature dropped.  Beth still felt lost and heartsore, unsure of her own self and unable to even look at the gun tucked into Daryl’s belt.

It took all of Beth's courage to whisper later, once everything was dark and quiet.  

“I… I feel so bad about it. Y’know.” She was nestled on the cabin’s creaky, army surplus cot. 

Daryl sighed. “Yeh.” He was on the floor in his sleeping bag, between the door and the cot.  He lifted up his arm, the movement barely visible in the dark, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“… Did you? When you had to…” 

He was silent a long time. Then his arm fell with a soft thunk on his chest. “Reckon a little—not like it is f’r you, though. But… always did feel different than killin’ a deer or any animal. Don’t rightly know why, when some’a th’men I done were worth less t’me than a deer or even some coon.  A buck or coon, I can respect.  Some rapist piece’a shit? Nah.” 

“But still.” 

“Still.” Daryl’s voice was bitter. 

“Guess that’s the way it has to be, though, or there’d be no good people at all.” Beth knew he was staring at her, and she stared back.  She could feel Daryl’s rising tension like some living thing—she waited, letting her arm hang over the edge of the cot, filling some of the unfamiliar space between them. 

When he spoke at last, his voice was hoarse.  “I should’ve been there.” 

Beth whispered, “You were there.  Was thinkin’ what you or Maggie’d do. 

“Yeh, but y’shouldn’t’ve had t’—” He cut himself off with a sigh. “Shit… jus’ get some sleep.”

  

** 

 

*

A/N: thanks for your comments, friends! x


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter and the next, _bones_ , were originally just one... but it rambled on way too long and there was more story to tell, so I've fleshed both out a bit and split one into two. So, the whole fic will be nine chapters now, instead of the original eight. I'm sure y'all are devastated. ;) I've posted them both.
> 
> Thanks for all your sweet comments! Enjoy. x

**6\. cold**

 

The first time Beth woke, it was to a high wind shifting the pines outside, their branches and needles scraping and picking along the cabin’s sheet metal roof.  Cold air whistled through cracks in the walls and bit its way through her sleeping bag.  

She shivered, curling her legs up to her chest, burrowing her hands into the warmth of her belly—she still couldn’t get back to sleep, though, from the cold drafts and from the dark, colder places her thoughts wanted to wander.  

Beth scooted over to peer at Daryl where he’d mummified himself on the floor. “Hey.” She wasn’t sure how, but she knew he was awake, too.  “Y’cold?” 

He didn’t make a sound. 

Her heart started to beat a bit faster. “I think you can fit." 

"… Fit where?" 

"Up here—on the bed." 

"… We ain't sharin' that damn cot." His voice was gravelly and tired. 

"I can squish." 

"Nah." 

"I can." 

Daryl sat up with a deep, frustrated sound.  

"See?" Beth pressed herself against the wood plank wall, stuffing half her sleeping bag behind her. Her voice was a shy whisper as she patted the space next to her. "Here.  It'd be warm. An’ it's stupid for you to sleep on the floor." 

"'S fine." 

"It ain't—Daryl, it’s cold as… as _shit_ , or somethin’. Shit in winter.” 

His snort was almost a laugh.  

“C'mon. We always share."  

Daryl hauled himself up, zipper of his sleeping bag coming open, and he sat twitchily on the creaky edge of the cot.  He gestured impatiently, "See, there ain't no—" 

Beth put her hand on his chest and pushed him onto his back.  He went all tense and quiet, and she quickly moved his right arm up so she could settle at his side, curled against him after she pulled his sleeping bag over them both.  He was warm and solid and safe, and Beth hummed in relief. "This okay? We can switch if you want your right hand for your knife." 

"My knife?" The muscles of his shoulder jumped under her ear. 

"Your Bowie knife. The one you sleep with." She tapped his sternum with her fingers. 

"How d'you know how I sleep?" he grumbled. 

"Daryl. We sleep together all the time. I ain't blind." 

Finally, he relaxed a little and moved their bodies until he was comfortable. His arm ended up curled over her shoulders, fingers catching a little on her hair. Beth sighed and let herself melt against his side, hitching one leg up just a bit over his, one hand settling on his chest. 

The smell of his sweat and Castille soap did something quick and strange deep in her stomach, or maybe it was how close they were, and Beth shut her eyes as her cheeks warmed. She took a long, deep breath—sometimes, she thought it was the nicest thing she’d ever felt, what he made her feel. "This okay?" she whispered, finger nudging at one of his plaid flannel’s buttons.   She wished she could touch him, as she pleased.  Wished he’d like that. 

"… You gonna let me up if I say no?" 

"But… You’re warm. And my thoughts were… spinnin’." 

He sighed, the sound resonant against Beth’s ear. 

She closed her eyes, lulled by the steadied rise and fall of his chest, the distant drumbeat of his heart as it slowed.  His body softened under hers, his hand coming up to drape across her wrist as if it were his knife. 

The second time she woke, it was to warmth.  It was dawn, and she was curled facing the wall, head on Daryl’s arm… but the rest didn’t make much sense.  He’d somehow ended up wrapped around her, his sleeping exhalations stirring in her hair. His left arm held her firmly against him, fingers hooked over her collarbone.  His Bowie knife was nestled on the cot under her elbows. 

Beth’s heart leapt and tripped and then started pounding, and she sucked in a silent, careful breath. She had only a dizzy, confused moment to soak in the feel of him before Daryl woke, too. 

His whole body went taut, and his fingertips flexed and trembled, a little, on her collarbone. Barely audible, he rasped, “… Beth?” 

She made a pretend half-noise and shifted, as if asleep—hoping he didn’t feel or didn’t notice how hard her heart was thudding.  She knew Daryl, knew he’d go fiercely skittish if caught like this… like _this_ , and what the heck was this? Just the cold? 

Daryl sighed. He pressed the cold tip of his nose into her hair and breathed, deep enough that Beth could feel his belly expand against her back.  Then he slowly unwound his arm from around her, lightly dragging his fingers in its wake. 

Beth’s mind went garbled. _Uh—is._  

Daryl leaned back with another soft sigh, nose moving down her neck. Her green John Deere shirt had gotten rucked up in sleep, and he brushed the back of his fingers, feather-light, up the bare, lumbar curve of her spine. 

Beth finally choked, her hips arching involuntarily back into his so that her butt was snug up against him, and— _and_ — 

Her head flopped onto her jacket-pillow as he quickly shuffled from the cot, making an inordinate amount of noise for Daryl Dixon. 

Beth’s fingers curled into the nylon puff of the sleeping bag as she willed her cheeks to cool off. _Pretend, pretend to_ —heart racing, she closed her eyes and forced a sleepy yawn and stretch before flopping onto her back. “Mornin’… gotta pee?” 

Daryl was frozen, crossbow already on his back and halfway to the door. “… Yeh.” Beth started to sit up, but he gruffed quickly, “Nah—you stay… not goin’ far, jus’… you stay put.” 

Beth fell back onto the cot as he slipped outside, and she stared wide-eyed and unseeing at the ceiling. _What was—what—_  

Her elbow bumped steel, and she flinched in surprise.  Beth was still holding up Daryl’s Bowie knife, uncomprehending, when he slipped back into the cabin. 

They stared at each other.

“Um, your knife… you forgot it?” 

He looked mortified. “… Din’t.  I jus’— _shit_ , give it here,” he snatched it from her, and then fiddled with the handle. “It’s cold as a geek’s ass out there. Walkin’ll get us warmer than some fire.  C’mon. Get your shit packed up.” 

Beth nodded, looking at anything but him—sure her cheeks were redder than tomatoes.

When he hadn’t spoken to her some four hours later, Beth got fed up.  They’d found the county road that circled the hills and gullies near their farmhouse, heading north from some town called Ropersville and the old logging railways.  Ropersville was northwest of a place called Berry, which was where they’d first met the strangers… at least, that’s what Beth figured with the help of their map, since Daryl was mimicking a deafmute.   

Angry, she poked him in the ribs with a single finger, and he flinched. 

“Th’hell?” He spat. 

“Why’re you mad at me?” 

Daryl stilled and looked away, glaring into the trees.  “I ain’t.” 

Beth rolled her eyes and stalked past him.  

He caught her arm. “Hey—” His eyes dropped from hers when she rounded on him, and he hung his head. “Ain’t pissed at you, Beth.” 

“Well, you’re doin’ a real fine impression of it.” 

“Nah, just… ‘s not you. I’m just in a real shitty mood is all.” 

She couldn’t help it. “… Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, huh?” Beth looked quickly into the trees, lips pursed, when his head jerked up.  

“… Tha’ was your idea.” 

She squinted at him. “Huh? We always… what, you’re pissed ‘cause we slept together?” Beth’s cheeks bloomed red. “I mean—” 

Daryl’s eyes widened a moment and then went slitted before he stalked off. 

Beth exclaimed, “You can’t really be—it was jus’, jus’ _cold_ … _Daryl_.” 

“Christ, just leave me fuckin’ be.” 

“ _Fine_ ,” she snapped. 

But Beth followed, hauling her jacket around her against the wind and gritting her teeth. She knew this was just Daryl being Daryl, but it infuriated her regardless.   She’d shot two men yesterday, and that still hurt something awful in her chest—and _he_ was freaking out because he’d _spooned_ with her? 

And, yeah, okay, so that was pretty mind-bending, but it didn’t entitle him to sulk like this. 

Beth glared at his back—at his stupid backpack and stupid crossbow and the stupid wings underneath that she couldn’t even see.  

They were following the road, but not on it—sticking to the surrounding hillsides, only descending through the overgrown roadside shoulders, through the sunflowers and joe pye weeds to pick through the occasional abandoned car.  Daryl didn’t say much for the rest of the day, and Beth made sure he got a hot glare every time he looked at her—even if she did share the grapes and blackberries she gathered. 

“Shit.” Daryl came to a halt, squinting up the road.  “Got company.” 

It was early evening—the sky gray and heavy and cold.  Beth sidled up behind him—frowning at the herd roving their direction. “How many?” 

“Too many.” He glanced behind them.  “It’d be best to let ‘em pass—rather’n go around or through ‘em—it’s gonna be cold tonight, too. Not worth bein’ out with those mummy bags bein’ so shit.” He mumbled to himself, “Negative ten, my ass—fuckin’ polyester.” 

Beth looked behind them. “That van?” 

“Yeh.” 

They backtracked a quarter mile at a quick pace, returning to a minivan they’d already gone through. They holed up in it, back seats tossed out, silent and eating apples and pears from the burnt up farm with the last of the cinnamon Beth had scavenged forever ago. 

Their breaths had fogged up the windows by the time the walkers arrived, snarling and gasping and picking at the van with hungry fingers. 

Beth sighed and unrolled her sleeping bag.  She curled up, exhausted and cold—not just from walking and not just from him not talking to her.  The shock of encountering and killing the strangers was less now—already muted by the necessity of making her way through forests and foraging and mapping the roads in her head so they .  There was still a queasiness in her gut though, and she couldn’t—couldn’t think of the moment, when— 

It was cold, and it was easier just watching Daryl watch the road.  

Eventually, when the last of the shuffling herd had passed, he settled onto his back with a tired grunt, bundling up. 

Beth took a deep breath and reached out, gripping his jacket.  She scooted herself closer until she was nestled against his arm, the safe boundary of sleeping bag puff between them. 

Daryl was still a long time, before he sighed and scooped his arm under her neck, pulling her in. “’M sorry,” he mumbled eventually. “’Ve been a dick.” 

Beth admitted softly, “Me too.” 

He huffed a quiet laugh. 

Beth unburrowed her hand to drape it on his chest—across his wrist and his knife.  He let her, breaths eventually evening and going deep. Then sleep pulled her down, too.

******

 

*****

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I posted this chapter and the previous one, _cold_ , at the same time... so make sure you read that one first! x

**7\. bones**

 

They purposely circled back the way the strangers had come, to see if others’d followed. Daryl went hunterly, tracking and silent on their trail.  Beth followed as invisibly as she could, eyes fixed on him and ears listening to the forest.  But there’d been no new signs—just the old ones, and a broken arrow whose nock Daryl kept. 

They didn’t expect any more of the group to be awaiting them when they reached the farmhouse—but they didn’t expect Jewel’s menacing growl, neither. 

Everything happened fast. 

“Ain’t that jus’ the mother _fuckin’_ way,” Daryl ground past clenched teeth, cocking his crossbow.  He looked at Beth for one intense second before slinking quick and silent to the porch. She stood frozen, knife instinctually in her hand—not that she could take down a bear dog gone feral the way she could a walker.  

She’d need a gun, and— 

Beth’s hands started trembling.  Jewel was snarling, and Daryl was dead silent and aiming his bow to put the dog down with an arrow between her eyes, and Beth thought she might puke, gunshots going off in her head and shuddering up her arm. 

And just as fast, Jewel’s growl rose to an excited yipping whine.  She half-barked once, and then clattered through the strung up tin cans, tail alternately tucked and wagging, practically inside-out of herself, pissing on the grass in apologetic squirts.  She butted her nose into Daryl’s crotch and then wiggled into the yard to Beth, doing the same. 

Beth dropped her knife hand, shaking.  She blinked into the chilly glare of the sun and moved forward, desperately seeking Daryl’s face. "I thought—I thought she…”  

He shook his head and mumbled, “Almost shot the stupid bitch.  Th’hell.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. 

Beth laughed hoarsely, clenching her teeth against the bite of tears.  She curled her fingers into the oilskin at his wrist. “Um, guess we know who she is n—oh." 

They both stilled, staring at the two hound pups lurking nervously at the top of porch stairs, tiny tails tucked. They backed anxiously into the straw and blankets when she and Daryl came onto the porch.  In their nest were rabbit bones and a gnawed up leather boot and the bones and withered sinews of a human leg. 

Beth winced and glanced at the corpse on the swing.  "We really need to bury him."

 Daryl was checking the door, the windows, and peering over the side of the porch where he’d stashed the strangers’ bodies—Beth could hear the buzz of flies.  He sneered at the stink and spat. “Well—don’t seem like we’ve had company in th’meantime, specially if the bitch brought her pups up ‘ere. Wondered why her teats were so big." Daryl nudged the puppies gently onto their backs and they snapped playfully at his laces. He grinned, "Little bastards ain't no bitches. Reckon they might be Hunter and Bear-claw, huh?" 

Beth flushed a little. "Fine.  Knowin' you, they'd otherwise be Pussy and Motherfucker." 

Daryl laughed, teeth white the sunlight, and Beth felt something in her chest catch—something that wasn’t grief and wasn’t the buzz of her crush on him, neither. 

"You watch that mouth now, Miss Beth Ann.” He grinned at her. 

And, Lord, if it wasn’t changing or getting worse, this crush of hers—worse ‘cause he’d been sweet to her as she made peace with herself… and worse ‘cause she was enjoying liking someone.  It was a soft, flamey feeling, a _good_ feeling, when so many things were hard and hurt.  

“’M gonna go find a shovel, get them bones in the ground." 

“… Okay.” Beth stood still, still hung up on the little grin curving his lips. 

And it didn’t help _nothin’_ that the memory of his fingers ghosting up her spine had burned itself into her brain.  

It was sort of blowing Beth’s mind a little, the thought that maybe Daryl Dixon had a crush on _her_.  Or had _something_. She wasn’t even sure if grown men _got_ crushes, much less Dixon men. Much less Daryl, who’d said himself he’d never been in love or had a steady girl. 

He did talk to her a lot, though—well, when he wasn't in a pissy mood.   And he hadn’t even pushed her away or said a word when she’d curled up against him the night before.  It had been cold, though. So… _maybe he is just bein’ practical._

 _Ain’t no amount of practical that makes a man smell your hair and caress you, Beth Greene, even if he only done it the once._    

Beth squeezed her eyes shut, cheeks flushing.  She was so confused.  It took some minutes to shake the haze off, in which time the puppies had discovered her. They gnawed at her boots until she shooed them into the straw. 

When Daryl returned with a shovel, Beth took a breath and shoved aside all the fluttering and said, “We need to bury all of them.  All three.”

He paused and looked at her for a long, steady moment, before he nodded once.  “A’right.” 

“I can—” 

“Nah. You settle in.” 

Beth felt something sag with relief inside her. 

Daryl dug the two graves, pushing the shovel into the dark earth with his boot.  A foot into the ground, he pulled his jacket off, huffing and rosy-cheeked in the cool, afternoon sunshine. "Here." 

Beth was sitting on the porch steps, sipping Liptons tea and scratching at Jewel’s dark head. The smell of Daryl-sweat and leather was familiar, and though Beth wasn't very cold, she drew his jacket and vest on with a pleasant hum. "Gonna go find some flowers for them." 

He watched her a moment. "Don' go far." 

Beth shook her head, glancing away from his eyes as her heart tripped over itself. 

The body fell apart as they dragged the corpse from the swing and into the yard.  Beth picked up his pieces as Daryl heaved the torso and gnawed up leg into the ground; she carefully put the rest in and glanced behind them. "Think we got him all? I feel like he's lost some bones, or somethin'.  The puppies might have eaten them, or buried 'em elsewhere." 

Daryl huffed a little. "Close enough.  Poor bastard." 

"I'm gonna get the pictures."  She’d found a few—not many—in the house, of a family at Christmas or in hunter orange and camo. 

"Don' even know if this's his farm." 

Beth shrugged. 

She tucked blooming goldenrod under the withered flesh and bones of the corpse’s fingers and put the pictures in with him.  Gingerly, she slid a few blackberries past what was left of his jaw and bared, yellowed teeth. The juice bled out along the bone and drawn skin. "Like Egyptians, or somethin'—'cause they're so hungry? The dead, I mean," she said softly, glancing up to meet Daryl's slitted gaze.  “Should I sing, or…? 

“Yeh.” 

It was her momma’s favorite song.  Beth sang, “ _Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see._ ” She knew the whole song by heart, but could only get through another verse before she started to cry, her voice losing its tune. “ _Through many dangers, toils, and snares I have already come… ‘Tis grace that brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home._ ”  Her vision went blurry, and she choked to a stop. 

Daryl shifted closer, slung an arm around her shoulders—tugged her in.  When she closed her eyes, it wasn’t the corpse she saw, but her dad’s head in the grass, eyes gone milky. “I-I wish… wish Daddy’d had a funeral. Someone t’sing—” her throat closed up and her shoulders shook. “I jus’—don’ want him t’think we forgot.”

“Nah.” His fingers dug into her arm, chin pushing against her head. 

“D’you think… d’you think they’re all still alive?  Any of them.” Beth stared off into the fields, the far woods, sighing. 

Daryl grunted, fingers pinching a little. “We’ll look—take the truck out or somethin’.” 

Beth nodded. “Where do you think they’ve gone, if…?” 

“Probably not where I would. C’mon.” 

They turned to the other, bigger grave.  The bowman didn’t even have much of a skull left—and Beth made herself look at what remained.  The birds had already taken the rifleman’s eyes, the dogs all the soft parts of his neck and belly. She tossed goldenrod in, blinking back tears.  

They stood there staring at the bodies for a long, quiet minute, Beth’s breath hitching wetly. "You gonna say anythin'?" Daryl asked softly. 

"Um. God bless them?" She trembled, and reached for his hand.  Her heart ached. 

"More’n they deserve," he growled. 

They filled in the graves together.  

 

**

 

*

 

A/N: Thanks for reading, friends! x


	8. Chapter 8

**8\.  whiskey and grace**

Beth giggled. “Y’remember, the first time I ate squirrel?” 

Daryl snorted. “Nah.” 

“No, remember, when we were first on the run, after Dad’s farm was overrun.  I’d been a vegetarian since I was, I dunno, twelve or somethin’—since I went with Daddy to Mr. Cox’s place to put down this yearling steer who’d been gored.  And then we was runnin’, and you came out of the woods—an’ you were filthy as Nelly after a dirt bath, with, like, twenty squirrels tied t’your belt.” 

“Twenty, huh.” 

“Like a hula skirt. An’ you stank so bad, and I was so hungry, and it was so gross and so good.  I decided I hated you, a little.” She grinned. 

He chuckled. 

They were holed up in the kitchen, potbelly stove warm and the room glowing.  Daryl had his boots on the table again, knife gliding down the spines of some turkey feathers he’d found, splitting them. 

Beth was tipsy on whiskey, her belly full of of squirrel meat and berries and squash pumpkins. Jewel and her pups, newly flea-bathed, were sleeping under her chair, soaking up the heat.  

After the funeral in the yard, they’d each had a shot of whiskey and talked some about who they’d lost. Beth’d spoken of her dad, her momma, her brother… talked about their vacations to Savannah each summer, the time she went to Disney World and the Everglades.  Daryl said a lot less, but it was something—about the mountains where he grew up, about the oaks and hickories and his first dog and his first bow. He’d said a bit about Merle, and Sophia, who Beth’d never met. 

Then they’d decided to celebrate, cozied up in the warmth of the kitchen, and had invited the dogs in when the rain started up again.  And Beth had sung them songs—mostly Dixie Chicks songs, once she’d found out that Daryl liked them.

Beth took another sip of Wild Turkey (and a big gulp of water—something else Daryl’d taught her).   She lifted the guitar again and strummed, and it weren’t no sad song about grace.  It was Natalie Maines’ glorious, sunlit twang in her head and running through her fingers as they plucked at the strings, pads already sore from disuse.  She didn't care. 

“ _Oh, cowboy, take me away… Fly this girl as high as y’can, into the wild blue. Set me free, ohh, I pray, closer t’heaven above an’ closer t’you…_ ” 

This singing felt better, anyway, less like a Nashville dream of some sweet-faced boy in love with her.  Better than a funeral dirge or a mother’s song to her sick children.  Beth tapped her foot and sang and sang, the lyrics as golden as the inch of whiskey in the mason jar next to her. " _… I wanna lookit th’horizon and not see some building standing tall—I wanna be the only one, for miles and miles… except for maybe you an’ your simple smile, ohhh it sounds, so good, t’me…_ ” 

She looked and Daryl _was_ smiling, honest-to-God smiling—his teeth weren’t showing, but for Daryl Dixon it was something.  

Her voice softened, lilting, “ _… Said I wanna touch the earth, wanna break it in my hands… wanna grow somethin’ wild an’ unruly…_ ” 

Rain clattered on the roof, untimed with her rhythm, but it didn’t matter. 

“ _Oh, it sounds so good t’me_.” And she fell into the chorus again, music lifting her spirit to the rafters or higher. 

When she finished, Beth grinned. "How was that?" She felt loose and warm and thrumming. She plucked out a few chords. “Did you like that one?” 

“Mm.” 

“It’s, like, _our_ song or somethin’.” 

He didn’t say anything, chair tilted and creaking. 

“Being all unruly, sleeping on the ground.  You with them wings stitched on your leather—flyin’, metaphorically speakin’. Haulin’ me around places.” Her lips quirked. 

Daryl was slouched and relaxed in his chair, easy and loose. “Hm.  Ain’t no cowboy, though.” 

“True. How ‘bout— _Redneck, taaake me away—_ ” Beth half-snorted, half-laughed, her fingers twanging off-key. 

Daryl rolled his eyes, still sort of smiling. “Yer a God _damn_ happy drunk, Greene.” 

“I’m not. Drunk, I mean.” Emboldened, Beth leaned forward over the guitar and tapped her cheek. 

Daryl stared at her, brows furrowing.  

She smiled slowly. "Where're your manners, Mr. Dixon?" 

"My wha’?" 

"Manners. A girl sings you a song, and y'should kiss’er on the cheek.  Don’t you remember our first lesson? Here." She tapped the hollow above her jawbone again. 

Daryl leaned back in his chair, looking away. "Nah." He plucked up an arrow, restlessly fiddling with the new fletching.  “Sing somethin’ else.” 

Beth stood and stepped carefully over Jewel on her way to the counter, reaching for the blackberries she'd picked earlier.  "Y'kissed it before." 

He grumbled, "Maybe I don't wanna kiss your cheek, ever think'a that?" 

Beth stilled and before she could even think straight, she'd looked Daryl straight in the eye and sassed, "Where'd you like to kiss me, then?" 

He twitched, cheeks going red. "That's not what I—" His flush deepened as he stared resolutely at the floor. 

Maggie’d told her, _We were on a run, an' I just, just went for it.  Kissed him._ They'd been nestled in a sleeping bag that first winter running, after the farm, watching Glenn walk the edges of the campfire with his rifle cocked.  _Took my shirt right off—y'should'a seen’is poor face._ Beth had blushed, and they’d both snickered.  Not even Sadie was that bold with boys. 

_We din't even know him, Maggie._  

_I knew ‘nough_. 

Something reckless welled up in Beth.  Why was she waiting for Daryl’s sign, anyway?  She’d had boys sweet on her before—she could charm the truth out of them, easy. Or just take of her shirt—Lord, Daryl’d _die_. 

She giggled. Her heart was pounding, and she was pretty sure her face was going red again, too. She felt the queasy, cloudy feeing that came with facing something terrifying and doing it anyway. "Y'sure? Nowhere else." 

Daryl was glaring at the floor, jaw ticking, fingers picking at some greasy piece of squirrel gristle. "Yeh, 'm sure." 

She looked back to the bowl. "Oh.  Too bad, then." 

She could _hear_ Daryl's uncomfortable, not-speaking quietness change into… a still, deliberate quietness. 

Beth began to pick dead, sticky insects off the blackberries, blood rushing in her head. 

His chair creaked. 

"… Too bad?" He sounded closer. "Too bad, what?" 

"About the kissin'."  Her voice cracked a little as she tried to maintain her half-tipsy sauciness. When she’d flirted like this with Wyatt or Jimmy or any other boy in high school, it hadn’t felt like this. They’d just smile shyly at her and saunter over and say hey… they’d not stalk her.  

But, she weren’t no deer. 

Beth could smell Daryl, now, at her back.  Feel the warmth of a living human person. His fingers appeared and drummed against the countertop next to her.  "The kissin', huh.  What, 'm I in trouble fer not kissin' your cheek, Miss Greene? Give me an F or somethin'?" His tone was mostly mean and mocking… mostly. 

"Maybe I'd changed my mind," Beth said, brazen, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Maybe I'd thought you were ready for a new lesson." Beth's cheeks felt hotter than the cast-iron next to them, her lips twitching against a scared, adrenaline-fed grin.  

"A new lesson?" His voice was low, and she could hear the confusion and tension in it. 

"Mmhmm." She turned abruptly with the bowl filled with cleaned berries and held back a gasp when her hands bumped right into him.  Beth took a breath, about to jump out of her skin when he held her gaze.  "G-guess you're not ready, huh." 

Daryl's eyes narrowed to a slitted glare. 

Beth tilted her neck sideways and tapped her cheek with her finger. "Go on." 

"Told you," he growled, "'M not going to kiss your fuckin' cheek like some little pussy kid.  You’re drunk." 

"You know I ain’t. I only had like three sips—” 

He arched a brow. 

“Okay, like a fourth cup. But _fine_ , if you won’t here, then… here." Beth straightened up, met Daryl's eyes, and then brought her finger to her lips. Tapped. 

He went very, very still. 

_Keep both eyes open_. 

Beth's one hand clenched on the blackberry bowl; the other trembled a little against her chin. 

"What're you doin', Beth?" His voice was a low, warning rasp. 

"Teachin' you manners.” 

"Ain't no fuckin' manners in kissin'—and pretty sure you and I both know how it's done." 

"Not sure you do," she taunted. 

"Th'fuck does that mean?" 

Beth shakily slid the bowl back onto the counter and tapped her lips again. "Show me."

His eyes had gone wide and kind of wild—the confused kind, the kind that him drumming his fingers nervously against the counter again.  But doing so meant his right arm was hemming her in.  And he wasn't running, wasn't excusing himself to piss or go find some walkers to kill though it was pouring rain and night, wasn't lecturing her about bad decisions when the world had gone to shit. He wasn't looking at her like she was a child.  She had his full attention locked on either her eyes or the finger at her lips. 

That had sparks going off inside her, had her stomach going tight.  The shape of him, the breadth of his shoulders and the narrow blueness of his eyes, the red on his cheeks—his _hands_ , recalling how they’d felt—it all had her sparking, going lit. 

Beth tentatively put her hand on his forearm, feeling the muscles dance and stiffen under her fingers, and then she swung up onto her tiptoes.  She smiled; the world felt like it was filling with honey. 

His left hand automatically steadied her, palm at her hip. 

"Beth—" 

So, yeah, she kissed him first. 

 

**

 

*

 

A/N: Poor Daryl Dixon—he’s got himself a handful of tipsy sassy Greene girl.  Song is _Cowboy Take Me Away_ , by the Dixie Chicks.  We're almost done, ya'll! x

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is a longer chapter, ‘cause our protagonists get a little carried away there, at the end. Enjoy, y’all! x

**9\.  somethin’ closer**

 

"That it?" Beth gasped against Daryl’s unmoving mouth.  "That all? C'mon." 

He pushed her back, palm across her collarbones.  His hand was trembling, the skin damp. 

Beth’s world went still. She stared up into his eyes, saw how dark and wide they were, how they kept slipping down to her mouth, where they’d sort of go unfocused and he’d part his lips to breathe—and. 

“Oh.” Something unclenched and unwound and just sort of perfused through her, sweet as electric honey. _It weren’t no damn practicality_.

Beth felt warm and bubbling when she raised a finger to his lower lip and the whiskers underneath. “’S not jus’ me, huh.”

Daryl jerked away as if stung. “Th’hell is this—playin’ some fool ass game—” 

“No, no!” Beth said quickly, grabbing at his sleeve and reeling him back. “I was teasin’, about teachin’ you manners.  This ain’t no lesson.  I want t’kiss you. I was awake—when…” She reached under his leather and shirt and traced a finger at the small of his back. 

Daryl flinched away from her. “Hell _nah_ —that wasn’t—it _weren’t…_ and what, since then you’ve got this girly crush on me or somethin’?  Thinkin’ I, what, _like_ you?” 

“No,” Beth glared. “No, I’ve had a _girly crush_ on you since we got here, maybe since before.  And, yeah, I do think you _like_ me.” She pushed out her jaw, holding his gaze.  “Gonna lie t’me and deny it?” 

He stared at her, mouth falling open.  He dropped his eyes, shook his head. “You—you’re outta yer damn mind.”  

“I am not. It’s not like I’m some innocent girl.  I’ve ki—” Beth’s heart caught and she shoved the ache aside, grabbing the front of his vest. “It’s not like I haven’t kissed a man before.” 

He growled, “Nah, y’haven’. ‘Less y’ve somethin’ t’tell me, they’ve all been _kids_.” 

“Better show me the difference, then.”  

His jaw clenched. “We been out here alone too damn long, ‘f you—‘f _I’m_ —” his voice trailed off. 

Beth held his gaze. 

“I ain’t no good at—hell.” Daryl squeezed his eyes shut, muscles ticking in his face. “Beth. I.  I don’t… This don’t make no damn fuckin’ sense—y’think I’m like them?  Those sumbitches who’d—” 

“What? No! I’ve _never_ … No.” She wrapped her arms around his chest and held on.  “You know I don’t think that.  An’ it does make sense.” 

Daryl was taut, his hand on her hip squeezing as if it was fixing to become a fist to match his other on the counter.  His voice came out ragged, “Just—le’s leave it, a’right?” 

Beth inhaled—he smelled of cigarette and wood smoke mostly, but there was sweat and the iron sourness of old blood too. There sort of always was.  And then she sighed, “… All right.” But she shifted onto her toes again and kissed his cheek. “All right.  C’mon, I’ll sing you somethin’.” 

* 

In the morning, Beth woke blessedly free of any headache—but there were a good half dozen walkers were milling around the wet, foggy yard, and Daryl was in an predictably ornery mood. 

“From your Goddamn singin’—” Daryl grumbled as he buried a knife up under one’s chin and yanked it out, hard and with a snarl.  “Geeks heard y’over the fuckin’ rain—‘s bull _shit_ —” 

Beth rolled her eyes, unconvinced, bracing her foot against another to get an arrow free—gore splattering up her arm all the way into her hair.  She shuddered, nose wrinkling. “Ew. Lord.” And she’d only just washed her hair, like five days ago.

They used the truck for the first time to haul the bodies and the dogs’ old blankets to the ditch—though hefting the corpses into the bed was its own kind of effort. Beth thought they might make a bonfire of them, and she was pretty excited at the prospect, but Daryl was restless and poking around at the truck’s engine.  When he tossed the map and empty backpacks in the cab, settling Jewel and her pups in with new bedding on the porch, Beth held in a smile. 

 _So, he’s runnin’. Pity he’s gotta take the very thing he’s escapin’ with him._  

Then they were driving towards Ropersville to do a run and some recon, and it was funny—how good it felt to be moving that fast, engine roaring and vibrating in her seat. It caught her up, how the world blurred past them, smearing the pines and browning oaks and fall sunflowers together, and they were barely pushing forty. But it was fast enough that the air caught at Beth’s hair and yanked it from her braid.  She smiled, lifting a hand to angle and weave it through the wind. 

When he wasn’t glaring at the road, he was glaring at her—but Beth didn’t look over at was no doubt an angry Dixon squint.  The recollection of getting tipsy and kissing him was a little mortifying and it got her cheeks hot, but… She definitely had his attention.  

* **  
**

Daryl parked the truck in the yard when they got back in the evening, and they were sitting in the bed with the gate down.He had his knees up, elbows on them, flipping his butterfly knife open and closed as he chewed on a piece of grass.  Beth sat Indian-style next to him.  There was a walker down in the field, just past the pond.  They were letting it take its sweet time in coming to get them.

“Why me?” 

Beth took a tiny sip of her Canada Dry; it was kind of flat, but the absurd gingery sweetness was like nothing she could ever recall tasting. “Are you seriously askin’ me that?” 

“Yeh—I mean. Christ, I’m shit at this, Beth.” 

“Yeah, well, me too—all my other boyfriends died.” 

Daryl bit at his thumb nail. “... Is that it, that I don’ plan to kick it?  Don’ wet my pants at the sight of that geek ou’there?” 

Beth paused. “I mean… not exactly?” 

He shook his head with a snort. 

“No, I mean—your bein’ like that isn’t _why_ , but it… it adds somethin’, ‘cause it’s who you are.  Like… bein’ so self-reliant and strong.  I do like that.  But, it’s not like I’m all, ‘well Daryl ain’t dead so I might as well jump _his_ bones.’” 

“Nah?” he mocked. 

“Though they are nice bones.” 

He flushed a little, picking at his knife. 

Beth shook her head. “’S not like I’d be wantin’ to kiss Rick or Tyreese or somethin’, if they were here.  Or, God forbid, Carl.” 

“Shit—th’hell happened t’all the boys your age, anyway?” 

“Sure there’re some somewhere—but you’d just kick their asses.” 

“Hell yeah I’d—” Daryl clenched his jaw and hung his head, fingers twitching. “Shit.  Your dad’d kick _my_ ass f’r even thinkin’—an’ I’d let ‘im.” 

“My dad is… and no, he wouldn’t’ve.  Maggie would’ve threatened you with a rifle, no mistake, but… Daddy was always proud of you, Daryl.” She paused, thoughtful. “Did you know he was seventeen years older than my momma?” 

Daryl glanced warily at her out of the corner of his eye. 

“Though, frankly, thinkin’ on ways you’re like my daddy really ain’t what I’m aimin’ for, here.” Beth wrinkled her nose. 

He snorted. 

She watched him, then idly poked his leg.  “Kiss me.” 

He let out a strangled cough. 

“C’mon, do it—‘fore that walker gets here and you get guts all on you.  Or I do.  It’s just a kiss—I mean, yeah, okay, _just_ nothin’, but… it’s not like we’re gonna hurt each other.  We’re a team, remember?  A team first.” 

He said nothing. 

“… I won’t even kiss back?” 

Daryl made a deep, pissed off noise. “Nah?” 

Beth didn't even have a chance to breathe before his hand sank into her hair to hold her head, jerking her onto her knees and towards him, the truck bed creaking. He tilted her neck and, despite the angry clench of his fingers, his mouth was tentative and soft on hers, his beard tickling.   

Beth had only a shocked few seconds to blink and sigh against his lips, before his hand slid forward to firmly pull open her jaw.  Though his eyes were still open, she closed hers and held very still, flushing clear down her neck when he pushed his tongue into her mouth. 

Daryl’s whiskers rasped against her skin, and his fingertips were rough as they moved along the bones of her face.  His tongue delved against hers before retreating so he could suck at her lips and catch a gusty breath.  He paused a long, heavy moment, forehead against hers, fingers digging into her cheek, before letting out a ragged sigh.  “Goddamn it.  Gonna let me do this?” 

Beth’s breath caught, and she nodded quickly. “Oh, ye—” 

And then he was sliding himself back into her mouth.  

Beth’s legs turned to jell-o and she wobbled, grasping at his knee, rubbing the bare skin there where his pants had ripped again.  Her body was buzzing and her mind was flipping around like a shored fish. It was from instinct alone that she began to carefully kiss back, tilting her cheek further into his palm and letting her tongue slip along and push eagerly at his. 

Just those little pushes made her head swim, and then Daryl sort of groaned into her mouth and the kiss changed—got wetter and deeper.  Beth clutched at him, at his hair.  She held on, tugged, and he lowered his leg and rubbed his palm along the ridge of her hipbone—then his hand was on her low back, hauling her closer. 

At some point, Beth’s thoughts blurred completely, and it started to feel like something was fixing to claw itself out of her.  She jerked closer, and the movement broke the kiss; she sucked in a strangled breath as Daryl’s lips slid wetly along her chin to her neck.  She shook a little as he rasped out some semblance of her name and half-kissed, half-licked her from collarbone to jaw. 

 _Oh, God._   Desperate, Beth got her leg hitched up over one of his, and then the other.  As he sat back and she fell into his lap, straddling him, his tongue slipped hungrily back into her mouth, holding her hips down as he shoved his up— 

 _Oh,_ Lord _. Oh, God_. 

Beth thought she was going to thrum into pieces, like some guitar string worked too hard 'til it snapped.  She had her hands under his shirt, tugging the fabric up from his hips, fingertips pressing into the damp skin of his spine and her palms spread across the muscles of his back.  And, God, Beth could feel him, she was pretty sure, against the crotch of her jeans. _Daryl Dixon… he’s hard, and ‘cause’a me…_ She groaned into his mouth, needing this so bad, more than she'd ever needed something.  She was sure she was wet enough it wouldn't even hurt, the first time. 

Daryl's hips arched again against hers, and Beth pressed back, cheeks blooming red; one of his hands fell to fan itself across her butt and force her closer and her legs wider and— 

He abruptly buried his face in her neck, squeezing himself against her until they were still. "Shit, _shit_ ," he mumbled against her skin. "Gonna make me—mother _fuck_. _Beth_." He growled out her name like he was angry and hurt and awed, all at once. 

"Don't— _no_ ," Beth clutched at his neck, his hair, body humming. "Don’t stop.  It's, it's all right. You can.” She exhaled dizzily and pushed her hips down into his. "Uh." 

" _Christ—_ aw _shit,_ hold up, Beth." Then one of his hands was gone, and he was leaning back, scuffling around the bed of the truck. 

She held still—was used to holding still and quiet when he said to—but she couldn't control the hazy feeling like she was about to vibrate out of her own skin and into his. All her attention was fixed on the feel of how turned on he was—right _there_ , right where it felt so good. She pushed her face into his neck and breathed and then blinked as Daryl bumped her arm with his crossbow. 

_The heck?_

Daryl hauled her close as he awkwardly lifted one leg to cock it, and Beth had to bite her lip to keep from laughing—or from wiggling on his lap as she watched his biceps flex either side of her.  She slid her fingertips up his spine. “What’re y’doin’?” 

He let out a short laugh against her ear, lips and whiskers brushing her skin. "Jesus motherfuckin' Christ, you're gonna kill me." 

"Better me’n walkers, right?" 

"Yeh. An’ walkers is what I’m doin’ _._ " 

She tensed, peering behind her and, yeah, there it was—snarling jerkily into the yard, dragging one mangled foot.  It had a suit and tie on, clothes Beth hadn’t even remembered existed. 

“Oh. Shit,” she muttered, making to get up. 

Daryl quickly yanked her back down and scooted them sideways. He handed her the crossbow, rasping in her ear, “Here—g’on, get it.” 

Beth shivered, maneuvering her shoulders around, elbowing into his collarbone. Her hands had steadied the moment the bow was in them, which… she grit her teeth, staring down the sights with both her eyes. 

Daryl’s hands rested on her thighs, thumbs soothing up and down as she hit the walker dead in it’s left eye and let the crossbow fall with a clatter next to them. 

She met Daryl’s pleased squint; and, oh, that honeyed buzz was back—or it hadn’t left, Beth wasn’t sure. She leaned forward to kiss him. 

“Whoa, hold up.” Daryl’s fingers slid up her legs to brace against her hips, pushing her back. He looked down and mumbled, "This's a real bad idea, Beth." 

"It's also a real good idea."  Unable to hold it in a second longer, she blurted, "I—I l-like you, too. I mean, obviously, but. A lot." 

He looked at her, eyes narrow and ornery.  But his expression immediately shifted into something unfamiliar, almost like he'd never seen her before. 

Beth blinked at him and then stuck out her chin. "I do.  And don't you say I don't." 

One of his fingers slipped through her belt loop and tugged a little, nervous.  He muttered, "Y've lost your damn mind." 

“I haven’t lost nothin’.” 

His jaw worked. "This don't scare you?  Me? Me'n you, like this." 

"No.” 

He scowled unhappily. "This ain’t the way it would’a been.  Before." 

“Well, thank God it’s _after_ , then.” 

He stared at her, eyes wider than she’d ever seen them.  In a bare, earnest voice, he said, “You’re so… Y’deserve somethin’ good, Beth. Someone.” 

"I know I do." 

She knew he wanted to deny her implication, but he didn't.  Beth kissed him on the mouth again—only gently, but it still made her stomach flip and the world swim dizzyingly.  His tongue darted out to lick along the under-curve of her lower lip, and Beth obligingly opened up again. 

Daryl quickly pulled back, shaking his head as if to clear it. “ _Shit_.” He squinted at her mouth as if it had pissed him off. 

“Find somethin’ you like, Mr. Dixon?” She teased. 

He glared at her. 

“Think I’ve found somethin’ _I_ like…” And she let her fingers glide down the buttons of his shirt to his belt buckle, and further— 

He caught her wrists quickly, as she knew he would.  

Beth grinned. 

" _Shit_. Watch it, Greene." He glared at her, but his eyes had gone all dark and his cheeks all rosy pink and it made her hot again and aware of how slippery she'd gotten between her legs. 

" _I_ liked it," she whispered, her own cheeks going red.  She wiggled. "Y'know." 

His eyelids kind of fluttered as he sucked in a breath. "… Uh.” 

“Got me all…” she licked her lips. 

His eyes tracked the movement of her tongue before slipping over her face and then down her body to linger on where she was straddling his lap.  “Yeah?” His voice was a soft, appreciative rasp. “Fuck.” 

“Ain’t that your area of expertise?” 

“Huh?” 

“Sex in the back of a truck.” 

His eyes narrowed. “We ain’t about t’have _sex_ in this damn truck.” 

“Maybe not tonight, but…”  

“ _Nah_ , not—” He stared at her for a long, intense moment, before reaching up cup her face and rub a trembling thumb across her lips. “Yeah—not tonight. But.” 

Beth grinned against his mouth.

 

 

**

 

*

 

_I wanna be the only one_

_for miles and miles_

_except for maybe you_

_and your simple smile_

_oh it sounds so good to me_

_yeah, it sounds so good to me_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m apparently still a major tease. Originally, _Lost and Found_ was going to be a fluffy, sexy one-shot follow-up to _Lessons_ (!)… and obviously, that didn’t work out, on a number of levels—and all the smutty bits are lingering in an epilogue that I’m _80%_ sure I’ll add here, just so Beth can “lose” what I’d originally intended she would in this story and I can tie stuff up a little tighter. **Update 6/5/14** : The epilogue has expanded into it's own full fic, and it's slowly but steadily being written. I fully intend to post it... and instead of 1,000 words of sexy goodness, there will be far, far more - plus plot. Stay posted.
> 
> This and _Lessons_ were my first fics, and ya’ll have been so, so sweet to me. It’s been fun to explore writing, generally, and writing these characters, specifically—getting a feel for them by making them walk around and sidle around not-quite-flirting. Thanks for joining me on the ride! x


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